


37 Days Later

by TheRealFailWhale



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Depression, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:58:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealFailWhale/pseuds/TheRealFailWhale
Summary: Buffy's dead, Spike's sad, and he's reminded of a promise.





	37 Days Later

There was a loud bang and Spike’s eyes flew open as he hurled himself out of his recliner and spun around to face the door to his crypt. There in the doorway, outlined by sunshine, was a familiar blonde head.

Spike stepped further away from the shaft of light that swept perilously close to his skin as he said, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Buffy stalked into the dark stone mausoleum, slamming the door closed behind her. With hands on hips, she stood in front of Spike and glared up into his face, wearing an expectant expression.

“Uh, there a problem?” Spike asked, smoothing back his own platinum blonde hair and trying not to stare into those green eyes.

Buffy only snorted derisively and turned away from him, moving to take his recently abandoned recliner. She crossed one leg over the other and continued to stare at him.

Spike felt acutely aware of his fairly disheveled appearance, as he had not left the crypt for several nights. His jeans were more wrinkled than usual and his black t-shirt sported a few blood stains from when he’d dripped on himself. He fought the urge to brush at the stains, since it wouldn’t help anyway.

“Look, Slayer, I don’t know what’s bugging you today but I’m sort of in the middle of something--”

“You know why I’m here,” she interrupted sternly. “And I know you’ve just been wasting your time lately.”

Spike scoffed and turned away, placing his own hands on his hips. Looking back to her, she still seemed to be waiting for him to say something.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what’s going on. I’m pretty sure I didn’t bite any of your friends, what with--” he broke off, gesturing to his head and the implied chip.

“Come on, Spike, are you really going to make me say it?”

Buffy leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, not taking her eyes off his face. Her expression softened as his silence persisted. She stretched a hand toward him.

“Come here.”

Hesitantly, Spike stepped forward and kneeled in front of her, taking the hand she offered him. It was soft, and warm, the callouses on her fingers rubbing lightly against his own. He held her hand in both of his own, holding it as though it were a priceless treasure. He saw a drop of water land on their joined hands and realized he was crying.

Looking up, Spike met Buffy’s eyes with his own tearful ones, his breathing suddenly hitching. With her other hand, Buffy reached out and pressed her palm to his cheek, gently wiping a tear with her thumb. She smiled.

“You know why I’m here,” she said quietly.

* * *

 

Spike’s eyes opened abruptly as the sound of grating stone came from overhead.

He sat up in bed and felt tears roll down as his face as gravity took its toll. He roughly wiped them away and reached for his pants, which were crumpled on the floor next to his bed.

“Spike?” a voice called above, in the main level of his crypt.

Cursing, Spike dragged the jeans over his legs and climbed up the ladder. Popping his head up through the hole in the crypt floor, he saw Tara looking around in concern. When she spotted him crawling through the floor, she moved toward him, feet occasionally nudging one of the many bottles strewn over the flagstones.

“There you are,” she said, offering him a hand as he reached the top of the ladder. He ignored this and walked to his fridge, from which he pulled a jar of blood. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, taking a swig of the cold liquid, revulsion hitting him a bit. He was too tired to warm it up properly.

“Um, yeah.” The witch’s girlfriend tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before continuing. “Um, Willow and I have to go out of town for the weekend and we were wondering if you could watch Dawn.”   
Spike froze, jar of blood still clutched in his hand.

_ You know why I’m here _ .

Forcing himself to move again, Spike settled down against one of the sarcophagi. “And why me?” He spread his arms and settled them on the edge of the stone, amusement creeping into his head as Tara blushed at his shirtless torso. It was quickly stifled however as she went on, ignoring his attempt to intimidate her.

“Well, Dawn really likes you and she’s been mentioning that she sort of misses you--”

“Little bit doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Spike interrupted, crossing his bare arms over his chest. “I’m hardly proper company for an innocent little girl.”

Tara mimicked Spike and crossed her arms, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Spike, she misses you, don’t be an ass.”

It was Spike’s turn to raise an eyebrow. The harmless witch rarely cursed at anyone, even him.

“Look,” she said, sounding a little uncomfortable. “I know you’re sad. I get it,” she insisted as Spike huffed and stood up, walking to his recliner. He paused the slightest bit as the image of Buffy sitting there flashed into his mind, but he sat down anyway. “We’re all upset, but none of us is as depressed as Dawn. She lost her sister, Spike.” Tara followed him and stood in front of his chair. He could feel her staring at him, but he glued his eyes to the tv set, which was off. “I know you loved her,” she added softly, almost drawing his eyes to hers. “But, uh, I don’t think shutting yourself in your crypt and drinking yourself to...uh, undeath? is the way to heal.”

“Hmph,” was Spike’s only response.

Tara sighed. “Whatever. Will you come watch Dawn or not?”

_ You know why I’m here _ .

“Fine,” he grunted, eyes still on the dark tv.

“Thanks, Spike. I know Dawn will be glad to see you.” There was a pause, which clearly made Tara uncomfortable because she shifted her feet and coughed. “Anyway, we’re leaving tomorrow morning, so if you come over tomorrow after sunset, that’ll work.”

“Fine,” he repeated.

Tara moved to leave but paused as she was passing his chair. She reached out a hand and patted his arm. He could feel the warmth under her skin, and it lingered after she’d left.

Spike stayed in his chair, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing.

It had been 37 days. Not all that long in the life of an immortal demon, but they’d been the longest days and nights of his life. Each morning when Spike went to bed, he felt a weight in his chest he’d never felt before. He would curl on his side, trying to clutch that weight, trying to hold it, hoping that would make it go away. Tears would come to his eyes, even when his thoughts were on anything but her. Drinking helped distract him, made it easier to laugh at stupid tv, though the laughter didn’t do anything to make the weight go away.

And when he did think of her? When all he could do was focus on the way her hair flicked in a fight, the way she’d roll her eyes at him, the rare occasion he’d managed to make her smile or laugh? Those moments would consume him, and he’d forget for a while all the times they’d fought, or she’d derided him, or when he’d seen her be happy with the other men in her life and he’d just wished she could look at him that way.

The dreams he had of her, like the one he’d had before Tara arrived, they lied to him. They pretended that she was alive, or that he’d done something, anything, in time to save her. But those lies were sweet, like her smile. He dreaded falling asleep, knowing he’d see her again, but in the dreams he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

_ You know why I’m here _ .

He did know. He’d promised her that he’d look after Dawn. But for the past 37 days he hadn’t kept his promise. And now the Buffy in his dreams was coming after him about it, the way she’d hounded him in life over something he’d done or hadn’t done.

So fine. He’d watch the little niblet while the witches were out of town. It would hurt, seeing Dawn. She didn’t look much like Buffy, but they were similar enough that every minute would be a reminder of what they no longer had. He’d be lucky if he didn’t cry.

Because there was nothing he could do. He could dream of the Slayer for the rest of his unlife, but he knew in his heart that she was gone. He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t bring her back.

The woman he loved was gone.


End file.
